


Something Beautiful

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I just wanted them to be happy, Light Angst, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19397278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Winter is early. It’s cold. But cold is good when you’re warm inside. And Eliot is warm inside right now. On many levels.Eliot and Quentin are building something new and beautiful.





	Something Beautiful

Winter is early this year.

The morning air is sharp. The trees stand naked. Not long ago they were still adorned with the vibrant colours of autumn. Now they are tall bare skeletons, their brown skin covered in softly sparkling ripe and frost.

The sun isn’t strong enough to break through the wall of clouds. She spends a gloomy half-light. The sky is light grey velvet, silently weeping snowflakes. They float and blur the world. A dense curtain of flickering white, until the cottage is covered in a pristine blanket.

It’s cold.

But cold is good when you’re warm inside. And Eliot is warm inside right now. On many levels.

The fireplace radiates a pleasant warmth. The shadows of the flames are dancing over the walls. The couch is warm too. But the warmest, the closest thing to sunlight in the room is Quentin's presence. Quentin, whose laying on his back, his head resting on Eliot’s thigh. He’s reading a book. His eyes flick from letter to letter quickly. When he turns the pages, he licks his lips. Sometimes, his brows furrow. Sometimes, his lips twitch in silent laughter. Sometimes, he makes a little noise. Half amused, half disbelieving. Eliot doesn’t miss a single movement on Quentin’s face.

He watches in awe, his insides warming every time he realizes this is real. For some reason – Well, he knows the reasons, Quentin never tires to remind him of them, but he still finds it hard to believe them sometimes. – Q chose to be with him.

Despite their excitement, their relief and longing for each other, they’re trying to do things slowly, because they’re both fucked up in a spectacular way. Combined, their mental issues fill a long list.

But they’re working on it.

Eliot has almost fully adjusted to a kind of way slower, calmer life. He doesn’t need his life to be a colourful fake of parties just to distract himself from unwanted thoughts, memories and emotions. He doesn’t fear silent moments that much anymore.  
He even drinks less alcohol. Sometimes he catches himself, reaching for the flask he has gotten rid of. Old habits die hard. He has been numbing unwanted persistent emotions with booze for far too long. But he’s trying. 

Before Quentin, he has never thought a movie night with hot chocolate could be so nice. Or preparing dinner together while laughing in the kitchen because Quentin is clumsy and Eliot is mostly occupied with preventing him from burning himself and the cottage. Everything he’s doing together with Quentin is nice. They have fun. The world is a little less gloomy now.

And yes, there are bad days. There’s no denying it. There are days on which Eliot finds Quentin crouching on the floor, hugging himself while rocking back and forth and sobbing because he sees no light. Because he’s still like a lost boat on the ocean, seeking a sense in all of this and failing. But Eliot hugs him and holds him and tells him they’re going to get through it like they got through the other bad days.

There are days on which Eliot yearns for the numbness of being drunk. Because the demons in his head won’t go away and he can’t deal with the memories. He can’t deal with the guilt he still feels because of Logan's and Mike's death. He can’t … But Quentin hugs him and holds him and tells him they’re going to get through it like they got through the other bad days.

Together.

They share the pain like they share everything else.

He thinks Quentin smiles way more often these days. Eliot loves to see him smile. It makes his eyes sparkle, the appearing specks of warm light changing them to the soft tone of honey.

When Eliot runs his hand through Quentin’s hair, he earns a particular bright smile. Quentin looks up from the book. The hazy curtain of absence slowly disappears from his eyes as he comes back to reality. Their eyes lock halfway and Quentin reaches up to cup Eliot’s face. Eliot leans into the touch.

Margo walks through the room. She glances at them, scoffs and tells them they’re insufferable. But there’s a smile hidden behind her glare. Quentin flinches when she throws a stern glance at him and when her lips twitch, Eliot muses that maybe Margo had a little talk with Quentin. A _if-you-hurt-him-I-am-going-to-rip-your-dick-off_ type of talk. Yes. That’s Bambi. She’s protective.

Outside, the modest snowflake shower changes into something more violent. A strong breeze hits the side of the cottage. Despite the fire, Eliot shivers slightly.

Quentin notices. Of course he does. “You’re cold?”

“Just a bit.”

Quentin gets up, closing the book after putting a bookmark into it and laying it aside. He wraps his arms around Eliot and pulls him close. Eliot readjusts his head until he can listen to Q’s heartbeat. It’s soothing. A steady, ever-lasting beat. Another reminder that this is real. That they are alive, here and together.

“Better?” Quentin asks. He shares body heat as easily as he shares his heart.

“Much,” Eliot murmurs, closing his eyes.

They stay like this while the wind is whistling around the cottage and the dance of the flames gets slower as they grow smaller. They don’t talk. There are certain situations in which words aren’t needed because glances, sighs and touches tell enough. At some point, Quentin starts to card his fingers through Eliot’s curls the way he always does it. Slowly, gently, almost reverently.

Time passes and it’s okay. They are at peace.

* * *

There have been so many changes in Eliot's life since they started to lead a relationship.

Nights are different now. 

Eliot often has nightmares. He got used to them by now. The world of his dreams is filled with his demons. His father yelling at him, calling him worthless, useless, stupid. He snaps his belt and tells Eliot he’s going to beat the gay out of him. That he’s going to make him into a proper man. And the shadow-image of his father screams at him to stop crying because tears are for the weak. But it’s not only his father who visits his nightmares frequently. Mike is also there, looking at him accusingly. _You killed me_ , the ghost whispers. And sometimes, a blue moth creeps out of his mouth.

Eliot used to wake up from this dream bathed in sweat, a silent scream on his lips, tears burning in his eyes. The feeling of guilt reverberating in his head, the scars on his back coming from the belt buckle burning in phantom pain. He calmed his breathing and reached for the nearest bottle of alcohol. Or, when it was a particular bad dream, for some of the pills hidden inside his drawer. Falling back asleep was almost impossible most of the times, so he sat at the window for the rest of the night waiting for sunrise while smoking cigarettes.

But when he wakes up from his nightmares now, there’s Quentin whispering his name in the darkness, reaching for him. They end up in a cuddle heap, limbs intertwined.

In Quentin’s arms he manages to fall back asleep again. He feels safe and loved and not a single pill or glass of alcohol could help as much as this.

Quentin does have his own occasional nightmares, from which he wakes up quivering and gasping, and Eliot pulls him close, murmuring soothing words while Quentin calms down.

Mornings are different now too.

When he opens his eyes, he looks right in Quentin’s restful face. There are no lines of worry on his forehead. His mouth is slightly open and his breaths are steady.

Eliot feels a sudden urge to wrap his arms around Quentin. To hold onto him, to be an anchor that makes sure Quentin wouldn’t float away in the darkness, like an abandoned ship on an endless ocean. He wouldn’t ever let go, because he’s happy. Being happy has always been a rare sensation. Volatile. It could go as quickly as it came. Because everything good always leaves. It’s a lesson he learned. Now he has to unlearn it, because in these hours of uncertainty and desperate silent pleading, Quentin tells him, “I won’t. I won’t ever leave you.” And Eliot wants to believe him.

When he brushes his fingers over Quentin’s hipbone, Q’s eyes flutter open and he makes a noise that’s half a snore and a squeak. Eliot chuckles. Quentin smiles at him, blinking owlishly. “Why’re you laughing at me?”

“You sound like a minipig.”

“Hey!” Quentin throws a pillow at him.

Eliot catches it and throws it right back. “What. Minipigs are cute.”

Quentin raises his eyebrows playfully. “You think _I_ am cute?”

“No minipig in the world could compete with you, Q.”

Quentin laughs. He leans over and kisses Eliot’s temple. “You sap.”

Eliot smiles. How is this his life?

Quentin gets up to use the toilet, shivering in the sharp fresh air of a winter morning. He stumbles out the room, wiping his eyes and yawning, looking kind of adorable in his loose-fitting pyjamas. Eliot follows him with his eyes, still kind of wondering how he deserves to wake up like this every day now.

He wonders about it a bit more while Quentin is in the bathroom. He tries to wonder about it without lowkey hating himself, because he knows it’s not healthy. 

“Jesus, it’s cold,” Quentin groans when pads back into the room. “I think my toes just froze … Hey. How do you feel about a shower?”

Eliot smiles. “Sounds heavenly.”

* * *

Showering together has become one of their favourite activities. They can do it for felt hours, until their skin gets red and wrinkly.

They strip down and Eliot shivers in the cold air. But the sight of Quentin naked is fuel for the fire inside him. He feels even warmer, when Quentin eyes him up and down for a long moment, before swallowing and reaching for the showerhead. He switches the water on and takes care it’s warm enough, carefully dipping his toe in to check the temperature, which is adorable, really.

When Quentin is satisfied, he turns to Eliot and reaches out a hand, smiling. “Come on.”

Eliot takes the hand and lets himself be pulled into the shower cabin, his heart jumping an enthusiastic loop at the thought of the warmth and intimacy he’s going to be enveloped soon.

Soon they’re covered in warm steam. Quentin pulls him into a hug, presses him close until they’re both standing under the stream of water. Eliot leans his head into the crook of Quentin’s neck and closes his eyes with a sigh. The sensation of the water pouring down on their skin is calming. Everything’s focusing in on this moment.

Quentin grabs the shampoo, squeezing a generous amount of it into his hands. But instead of washing his own hair, he hesitantly reaches up to run his fingers through Eliot’s curls. “Okay?” He asks, sounding almost shy.

You don’t have to ask for permission, Eliot wants to tell him. You could do anything you want. I trust you. I trust you with my life.

But out loud he says, “Yes. Of course.” Because Quentin needs it. They both need it. Assurance. Reassuring. Control over the situation. 

Quentin starts to rub the shampoo into his hair and Eliot sighs. He melts into Quentin’s massaging touch, leaning back against his boyfriend’s chest. It feels so amazing he wants to melt. If Q is keeping this up, he’s going to start purring like a cat soon. 

“Feels good?” Quentin asks, sounding hoarse.

“Yes,” Eliot sighs. 

“Good. Close your eyes,” Quentin says, gently guiding Eliot to lean his head back some more. He rinses Eliot’s hair and always watches out to not let the water pour over his face. He's so careful.

“Thank you, Q,” Eliot says. He would love to say a lot more. But every coherent thought is jumbled up in the overwhelming sensation of being loved and safe.

Quentin hums and kisses between his shoulder blades, tenderly. Eliot can almost feel the smile on his boyfriend’s face.

He turns around, looking down at Quentin, whose face is blushed. In his burning eyes, Eliot sees his own lust reflected. “Hey,” Quentin breathes. 

“Hey,” Eliot answers, smiling. He cups Quentin’s face and leans close to kiss him gently. Quentin hums into his mouth. His hands glide over Eliot’s wet back, pulling him close. Their chests collide, skin moving on skin.

Eliot can feel Quentin’s erection against his leg, hot and hard. His own cock twitches and arousal burns low in his belly. He intensifies the kiss, parting Quentin’s lips with his. Q moans into his mouth and Eliot shudders. He presses firmer against Quentin. He wants to be as close to Q as possible. He wants him inside and outside, wants to have every part, wants to … He wants everything.

He looks down at Quentin’s cock, which looks red and straining, and licks his lips. “I want to suck you. Okay?”

Quentin shivers and groans. He bites his lip and his lashes flutter. Eliot drinks in the sight, hungry, thirsty, so painfully in love and aroused. “Yeah. Okay,” Q mutters and Eliot is on his knees before the last syllable even left Quentin’s mouth.

He’s on eyelevel with Quentin’s cock and takes some time to admire it.

“El,” Quentin murmurs barely audible over the running water.

Eliot leans his head against Quentin’s thigh, running his fingers up and down Quentin’s cock for a moment, using his thumb to gather the drop of precum already building at the tip. He brings his finger to his mouth and sucks on it, hearing Quentin cursing breathlessly. Eliot looks up and meets Quentin’s half-lidded hazy gaze. His boyfriend’s face is flushed. His mouth is slightly open. Wet strands of hair surround his face and water pearls run down his heaving chest. It’s a sight Eliot wants to imprint into his mind.

He licks the head of Quentin’s cock, smirking when he hears a higher moan above him. He knows what kind of sounds Quentin makes when they have sex. They know how to play each other like instruments by now. Like one of them is the virtuoso, following a well-known row of notes.

“El,” Quentin repeats, more breathless this time.

Eliot smiles and swallows Quentin’s cock down slowly, pressing his tongue against a vein and sucks. The sounds that leave Quentin’s throat are a symphony.

One of Quentin’s hands lands in his hair, hesitantly stroking and finally grabbing , pulling slightly. Eliot hums around Quentin’s cock appreciatively, hoping Q gets the message. He does, tightening his grip and pulling at the strands of hair a little bit stronger. Eliot’s cock twitches and he moans around Quentin’s cock. He’s rock-hard by now. But he doesn’t touch himself. He focuses on the pleasure he’s giving.

It doesn’t take long until Quentin is quivering. He’s leaning back against the shower wall heavily, his breaths ragged. He’s mumbling curses and moans into a fist, his stomach muscles tensing.

Eliot sucks on him hard and cups his balls gently and that’s it. Quentin rolls over the edge with a gasp. His cock twitches and Eliot swallows while his hand sneaks up Quentin’s trembling leg, gently stroking wet warm skin.

“Holy shit,” Quentin murmurs.

Eliot hums approvingly.

He gets up, his knees protesting for a moment. He leans against Quentin, pressing his lips on his, letting him taste himself. Quentin moans and grabs the back of Eliot’s head as he’s kissing back with fire. His other hand reaches down to wrap around Eliot’s straining cock. He gives a few firm strokes, just perfect, and Eliot pants into Q’s mouth, seeking contact, not losing it for a second. The world is this. Warm water pearls running over their bodies. Quentin’s scent and his lips, soft with a little crack here and there. The pleasure rolling through Eliot’s body and the feeling that they’re in their own little world. Safe and sound.

Eliot comes when Quentin adds a twist of his wrist and kisses the corner of his mouth to catch a lost water pearl.

He feels lightheaded and sways a little, relieved when Quentin holds him, stroking his back. Quentin’s fingers are soft and wrinkly. They’ve been in the shower for probably ages. But Eliot couldn’t care less. They deserve moments like this. If it takes forever, he won’t complain. Reality is close enough and it has sharp claws.

When his breath calmed down and his legs stopped trembling, Eliot backs away and reaches for the shampoo again. “Let me wash your hair too,” he tells Quentin who hums and nods, turning around.

Eliot buries his fingers in Quentin’s long hair and relishes the feeling. 

* * *

Later, they’re laying in Eliot’s bed side by side. Quentin draws lazy circles on Eliot’s stomach with the tip of his finger. He chews on his lip. His brows are slightly furrowed. Eliot knows that expression. “What are you thinking?” He asks.

Quentin shrugs. “Well. Um. You know, there was a time I didn’t think life would ever start to be something I don’t want to miss. Something I don’t want to escape from. Something I don’t want to lose. But now, it is. And … I finally feel like things could be … okay, you know?”

Eliot nods. “I know. And I think the same. I don’t feel the desperate urge to be drunk or high 24/7. That’s great. I feel like … like we are building something here. Something stable and strong. Something that can be a future.”

The future has always been a scary place. A place without a concrete image. Just vague shadows. None of them were promising. There were times when Eliot didn’t even know for sure, if he would survive his 23rd birthday. But now he’s here and he wants to stay.

Quentin looks at him seriously, his eyes flicking over Eliot’s face. They soften and Quentin reaches out to touch Eliot’s cheek tenderly. “I love you, Eliot,” he says.

Eliot swallows, his eyes suddenly welling up with emotion. It’s okay. This kind of emotion overload is welcome. “I love you too, Q.”

They start to kiss again. It’s slow and almost feels like a ritual. 

Quentin runs a finger over every scar on Eliot’s back before pressing a gentle kiss on them.

In return, Eliot kisses the thin silvery scars on Quentin’s arms, finding every single one of them.

They have scars on the outside and the inside, but they’re not broken. They’re sealing the cracks.

“We’re going to be okay, El,” Quentin tells him sometime, sounding sleepy.

Eliot hums. He lays his head on Quentin’s chest and closes his eyes.

Their minds and hearts, they are like pieces of a puzzle. The pieces are jumbled, and they are tired, but they continue to set them together, nevertheless. They work relentlessly, until the image is finished. Until it lies in front of them and is etched on their memory, in their hearts.

Something beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I didn't think my hundredth story here on AO3 would be my first Magicians fanfic! :D  
> I just started watching and I'm at episode 4 of season 3 (but I'm quite spoiled already). I'm already shipping the hell out of Quentin and Eliot, lol.  
> Hope you liked the fic a bit! <3
> 
> * 
> 
> I'm not a native speaker and always grateful for being corrected! I'm constantly trying to improve my English, so please don't hesitate to tell me about mistakes. <3
> 
> Visit me on tumblr: [ready-to-kick-some-ass](https://ready-to-kick-some-ass.tumblr.com/) :)


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